


Saying Goodbye

by Wahkeetcha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Animal Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahkeetcha/pseuds/Wahkeetcha
Summary: Aramis makes a difficult decision and says goodbye to a long time friend
Kudos: 15





	Saying Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> I have worked with horses the majority of my life. I've helped bring wiggly wet foals into the world and brought the elderly, time worn working soldiers to the grave at the end of their lives. It isn't easy, it isn't simple. Please be aware this work deals with the death of an animal and the emotional tie that is severed once that animal has to be let go. If you are sensitive, please don't read this. I think I wrote this as a way to deal with my own equine tragedies and to process saying goodbye to my own dear friends. 
> 
> There may be other chapters to this, I am not sure. So, again--- WARNING--- death of animal.

A single pistol report breaks the silence of the sleeping Garrison, the splitting crack causing many of the men to jolt awake in their beds. A few men move to look out their small windows at the courtyard, the moon casting just enough light to paint the macabre scene below in a black and silvery relief.

A smoking pistol held loosely to the side

The hand of a friend simply laying on the slumped shoulder

A hulking shape stretched out, unnaturally still beside the stable

It was a scene many seasoned Musketeers had seen before, an act they have all had to commit on the battlefield or alone on the road. Those men move away from the window and return to their beds, knowing that; by morning, the body would be removed and their lives would continue on like a normal day.

If it weren't for the single shot, no one would have noted the death of the noble and loyal animal.

__

Porthos watches as Aramis loads his pistol with unsteady hands. The large man stands in front of the heavily breathing animal, his lead rope held loosely. The animal isn't going anywhere, his large body trembling and covered in sweat and grime, knees bloody from hitting the hard training yard ground.

“Aramis, do you want me--” Porthos begins to offer but a quick shake of his friend’s head stops the sentence, the flint is lit and glowing red hot.

“No, he is my responsibility.” He states simply and steps closer to the trembling animal, his pale hand stroking the animals sweat drenched face and pulling the forelock aside. Porthos swallows thickly and moves to stand with Treville, leaving the lead dangling. Aramis gives the animal another caress before leveling the pistol with the very center of the noble head, the small white star a morbid mark.

The pistol report is deafening

The smoke from the discharge barely covering the single full body twitch of the massive animal before it lurches to the side to land limply on the ground, the large brown eyes lifeless and empty. Aramis stands and stares at his companion, the pistol held out to the side, pointed away from the horses’ body.

“You did the right thing son. I know it's never an easy thing to do, but in the end it was right.” Treville offers by way of condolence before gently patting Aramis' shoulder. The Captain gives the sweat drenched animal a final look before walking away, his boot falls resonating across the training yard. Porthos stands with his friend for a while longer, silently offering his support. Aramis kneels beside the large head and with nimble fingers work the buckle on the halter, releasing the leather strap and gently drawing it off the baroque head.

“He was a good horse. Faithful and honorable.” Aramis remarks, his voice choked as he runs fingers through the stallion’s thick forelock before resting his hand over the animals’ sightless eye. Porthos presses a thick fist to his eyes and swallows thickly, thinking of his own horse standing beside the empty stall, his long face hung over the half wall where his stablemate stood. The ailment struck only a few hours after the four returned from the hunt, all four horses drenched in sweat and heaving after chasing after the King in pursuit of his pleasures. Aramis had attended Marte with his usual dedication and grace, the animal was walked cool and given several mouthfuls of water during his walk. Aramis saw him fed the corn and barely mixture before settling the stallion in the stall beside Phillipe before heading out for his own supper, well after the others. It wasn’t until Aramis retired to his small bunk and was just finishing his nightly prayers the urgent knock came at his door.

“It’s Marte, he’s not right.” Jacques gasps before racing back down the steps, Aramis a heartbeat behind the young boy. Marte, tied in his stall was heaving and sweating, his sides dripping as he groans and paws the ground. Jacques goes to the horses head, intent on comforting the large animal but is pulled aside by the older Musketeer.

“No, stay away from his head. We must walk him.” Aramis states solemnly and unties the lead from the post, clucking to the massive stallion quietly. Marte takes a step and seizes, bringing one massive hind leg up to kick violently at his stomach.

“Jacques, get the long stick and flick it behind him. We need to keep him moving.” Aramis instructs calmly as the young stable boy jumps to obey his command, grabbing the supple sapling and swishing it in the air behind the struggling horse, making the whip whistle slightly. Marte pins his ears but heeds his handler and takes several steps forward and out of the stable. Aramis steers the horse towards the sand-based training area but the horse gives a distressed grunt and kicks again, throwing himself off balance and onto his knees on the cobblestones. Aramis pulls at the halter, giving the horse a vicious command in Spanish and nods to Jacques to use the stick once more to make noise at the horses’ hindquarters. Marte heaves himself to his feet unsteadily and Aramis begins leading the animal haltingly around the training area, the groans getting louder. Several more times Marte hits the ground, his sides drenched in sweat and heaving painfully. Treville watches the scene from the second landing of the stairs, his knowing eye taking in the animal’s ailment and the defeated set to the marksman’s shoulders. Jacques keeps casting alarmed, scared eyes at the Captain, his gaze filled with hopeful pleas. The horse heaves himself to his feet once more as Aramis yanks on his head, praise and pleas falling from the man’s mouth in a mixture of Spanish and French. Treville turns and marches up the steps, his boots stopping at the door to one of the small bunks.

“Porthos.” He calls softly, not wanting to awaken the whole Garrison but knowing the marksman would need the impressive strength and bearing of his brother. The door opens quickly and Porthos blurrily peers at his Captain for a moment before clearing, his body tensing as he come fully alert. Treville stares at the large soldier for a second before gesturing with his hand toward the training area below.

“Aramis is going to need your assistance I fear.” Porthos wordlessly yanks on his boots and pushes past him to look down at the training area.

“Oh hell.” He breathes and stomps over to the staircase and is down to the ground in a blink of an eye. He falls into step beside his friend, grabbing the horses halter to help keep the tension to urge the animal on. Treville waits beside the stairs and on the last pass gestures for Jacques to come stand beside him, the young man worn with worry and exhaustion.

“Go to your bed, I will help where needed. My apologies to your mother for keeping you here so late.” He orders and takes the switch from the boy’s hands. With a last look at the struggling horse the young man starts to jog out of the Garrison, his shape swallowed by the darkness outside the doorway. Treville plays with the switch, his fingers brushing over the leather binding at the base of the long training tool. It is very rare that the men have to use such a tool for their horses, but when Jacques is instructed to ground work a few of them he needs the aid of the long stick, his young arms just not long enough to keep the lazy members of the stable moving.

“Aramis, you know as well as I do there isn’t much we can do for him.” Porthos says softly as they pass by the Captain, the animals steps becoming less coordinated. The animal’s large legs are cut and bleeding from the falls to the cobblestones, his eye weeping and mouth drawn taut in pain. Aramis nods hesitantly, his balance disrupted as Marte gives a violent kick and whips his sweat soaked neck around to bite at his sides. Aramis stops pulling and pleading, his jaw flexing convulsively as he gently peels back the upper lip, exposing ghastly white gums that stand out starkly against the black of the horses’ coat. Treville takes the few steps to the animal’s head and places a hand on the marksman’s shoulder. Aramis hesitates briefly, his long fingers toying with a frayed piece of cording of the lead rope. Marte gives a long groan and strikes at the ground with a forehoof, striking a ditch in the training sand even as he strikes out again at his stomach. Miserable and in pain the usually placid and kind stallion shakes his head aggressively and gnashes his teeth at Aramis’ well-meaning hand, trying to force the human into moving.

“This isn’t right, he’s suffering Aramis. You know it needs to be done.” Treville states flatly using every ounce of his own strength to keep the suggestion from becoming an order. As a former calvary soldier the Musketeer Captain knows the bond between horse and rider. But he also knows when it’s time to honor that bond by being the one to end the suffering when the time comes.

“Porthos, I will need my pistol. It will be on the table by the window.” Aramis requests, taking long and unsteady inhales through his nose, eyes moist with unshed tears. Wordlessly the larger man takes the stairs quickly, ducking into his friends’ room to retrieve the weapon. As silently as he left, Porthos returns and takes Marte’s lead and maneuvers the animal away from the Garrison’s sleeping quarters. Aramis efficiently loads and primes the weapon, his fingers steady and breathing controlled. It always amazed the other Musketeer, who had seen Aramis fight and shoot numerous times in their career together, how calm and almost tranquil the man could become when taken to task. He approaches and gestures for Porthos to back away, the large man does and stands beside his Captain as the Spanish Musketeer gives his faithful animal one more loving caress and takes aim. Marte, for his sake stands quietly in these twilight minutes, his sides heaving in pain as he slowly blinks at his master.

“I’m sorry… and thank you my friend.” Aramis whispers in Spanish, his mind replaying a prayer he was taught as a boy by the town butcher while the man slaughtered geese in his small shop. The recoil of the shot barely registers, nor does the heavy thud of a lifeless body collapsing to the ground. Aramis remains standing, dropping his shooting hand limply to his side in defeat.

Marte, the fierce and battle-scarred stallion was simply gone, his large body laying defeated on the ground of the training yard in what had been his home for nearly twelve years. Inside the stable several horses nickered and moved around in their stalls before going silent—their farewell to a friend not going unnoticed by the three men. Treville moves slowly and places a hand on Aramis’ shoulder and whispers a short sentence to the younger man before heading to his office, noble shoulders curled slightly.

The two friends remain in the yard a while longer, simply standing.


End file.
